lone lands

On a diary page bruised with the drying juices of varied produce, in script made tight by long work, can be read…

    The cacophony of battle rang throughout the ruins of Minas Eriol. The clattering of mail and weaponry and the yells and shouts of both man, elf, and dwarf alerted the goblin occupying force that they had been given a notice of eviction. The vanguard force led by Commander Altheric and the stalwart dwarf Sergeant Kildwin flushed violently into the heavily populated entrance that the Beastmaster Aranoll revealed to them.

Stuck.

Going west was no longer an option, going east death waited around every corner. Should he go back to Hrimbarg or Khazad -Dum? Hilfar shivered at the thought. He had struck a deal with the tavern keep of the forsaken inn to do all these petty chores while in return he would receive food and a roof over his head. Both lacking any taste or comfort, but what should one expect in these parts? 

And thus the last (or maybe not?) journey of the Shadow Walkers began. With Sauron gone, it was like a weight was lifted from their souls. The journey was long but certainly fun in a way and sad in another.

They passed through Gondor, stopping in Bar Hurin, Arnach, Pelargir, Linhir and Lamedon, and they eventually went through the former Paths of the Dead. None of them ever feared this place, whatsoever. In Rohan, they made fewer stops, and they typically stayed in the wild, except that one time they went to an inn in one of the towns and drank some mead together.

Cyndin lay in the long sere grass at the top of a barren ridge, supressing the most irritating tickle in her throat  - it wouldn't do to sneeze now, with those wargs prowling so close below!

Slowly she raised her head again, hood drawn well up to cover fair face and blonde hair as much as possible and peered out again, down towards the narrow strip of gleaming stream below the ridge, past the prowling wargs, where the men she had carefully shadowed from south of Bree stood with a clump of milling goblin-kind!

Found:

A strange sigil - Ancient. Eroded. Part of a whole?

Broken pick - owner presumably dead.

Sapphire ring - Can't be more than fifteen years old. Worth selling on.

It has been long since I've been able to take up this book and write and still I'm hesitant of writing

Some time has passed since it happened but I cannot get it out of my head, I've had little sleep and I know they have begun to worry due to my lack of eating but how can I eat when the faces of those men haunt me still?